


Images in Red

by OpensUp4Nobody



Series: Odd Unrelated Mini-fics [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: A lot of stress, M/M, a little bit of surrealism, and paranoia, everyone is a scientist bc i dont care, strangeness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:03:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpensUp4Nobody/pseuds/OpensUp4Nobody
Summary: Enjolras is a grad student having a bad time.





	Images in Red

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: "I'm afraid you'll have to carry me"
> 
> Thanks to shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing and organizing this same prompt thing
> 
> Also, I imagine this story taking place in Albuquerque New Mexico bc why not

Enjolras aches to his bones, soreness the only thing holding him to his body; a frayed thread, and he’s in danger of floating away. Sunlight is bleeding in through the curtains over his bedroom window, casting an unfamiliar light over the room. He always keeps the curtain open at night to watch the stars. His eyes adjust. His mind clicks into awareness, awake now after never having been asleep. Where was he moments before?  

He rolls onto his back, clammy and sweat drenched but not feverish. His blankets smell sickly with panic. Even his teeth hurt, his mouth bitter and metallic, foreign in texture. 

As he assesses his condition, his mind is blank in the way that all minds are when they wake, and then it isn’t, and he’s trying very hard not to remember things…one thing…one very concerning thing… 

Thoughts tumble through his fogged mind, running together in a jumble of caustic and too-real sensation. His breath quickens, and his chest constricts around the molten panic stirring beneath his skin. He can’t remain stationary, can’t stay in this room. Muscles strain and he is upright, seeking a change of clothes. No, not a change—he isn’t wearing clothes. He hadn’t put anything on after removing them last night. He stands in front of his dresser with the overwhelming urge to light it on fire, burn everything to ashes, but he doesn’t. He feels sick but keeps moving, not letting his mind linger, preparing for the day as he would any other, stepping calmly and carefully into the kitchen. 

The house is dead quiet: Courfeyrac and Combeferre must still be sleeping. That’s not unusual, Enjolras is typically the first to rise. Ordinarily, he would take the opportunity to read up on the news—his weekend was a mess of activity, and he’s behind—but today the thought fills his stomach with lead, and he can’t bear to look. He pours himself half a glass of orange juice and doesn’t drink it, instead sitting on the counter and staring into the sink. The tap is leaking. The sound echoes in the silence, and he lets it consume his awareness. A calm and steady contrast to his vibrating mind. Heavy drops on a solid surface. But the soft plinks slowly turn to more substantial splats, and Enjolras can feel pressure building behind his eyes. He can’t blink, can’t look away or cover his ears. Each drop adds another thousand pounds to the grief in his chest.  

“Enjolras?”

“Hm?” Enjolras startles, nearly falling off the counter. Courfeyrac is staring at him, a piece of bread in his hand.

“I asked what time you got in last night,” he repeats.

“Oh…” What time had he come in? “Late.” Later than he’d imagined he would. “I had to replace a flat tire.”

“Look at you, Mr. Adult.” Courfeyrac snorts, moving toward the toaster. “Did the samples make it okay?” 

Did they? They must still be in the car because he can’t remember stopping at the university. “Of course they did.” The words are sharper than he intends. 

“I was just checking, jeez,” Courfeyrac complains before raising his voice. “Ferre, Enj is being snappy with me!”

“Be nice to him.” Combeferre breezes into the kitchen. “He drove halfway across the state to bring you a car full of desiccated lichen.”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes. “He needed an excuse to go to that boring plant conference, and I was happy to provide it.”

“He was planning on going anyway,” Combeferre points out. It’s true, Enjolras had already had the intention to attend the conference; stopping to pick up samples from Courfeyrac’s colleagues had only been barely out of his way.  

“Well, now I owe him a favor.” Courfeyrac looks over to Enjolras. “Enj, if you ever need to hide a body, I’m your man.”

“Speaking of which,” Combeferre says as the toaster pops. “Jehan is going to murder me if I’m late. I’m supposed to let them into the sample library in ten minutes.” He snatches Courfeyrac’s toast before he can object.

“Combeferre! I thought we were friends!” Courfeyrac despairs.

Combeferre is unmoved, turning the now-licked toast over to apply in a layer of jam. “We are, that’s why you made me breakfast.”

“Get out. I banish you from this kitchen.”

“I’m leaving anyway.”

“Good riddance,” Courfeyrac huffs. “See you at the Musain tonight?”

Combeferre agrees as he rushes out the door. 

“The Musain? On a Monday night?” Enjolras blinks. Typically they save the drinking for the weekends when everyone has the time. 

“There’s a full moon, Enj!” Courfeyrac chirps, grabbing another piece of bread. “We animals must party, it’s a tradition.”

“This is the first time it’s ever happened.”

“So it’s the start of a tradition,” he amends, “You in?”

“I have to catch up on work.”

Courfeyrac pokes at him. “R’s going to be there.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Grantaire would not miss a chance to party. 

“I just thought I’d remind you…you know, in case you’re looking for an excuse to spend time with him.”

“I don’t need an excuse to hang out with R,” Enjolras denies. “I see him enough in the lab.” Grantaire works in the soils half of the ecological biochemistry lab, Enjolras sees him frequently from across the plant side of the room.

“Staring at him over the top of a gel like a weirdo doesn’t count.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “I’ve got to go, I have a meeting with Lamarque,” he lies. His meeting isn’t until later in the morning, but he can feel his mind slipping away, and he’s not sure what he might say if he lets it. “I’ll drop your samples off on the way.”

“You are an angel. Have fun at your meeting.”

Enjolras slides off the counter, feeling heavy as he steps out the door and into the morning light. The sky is clear and cloudless, he shivers in the warmth. He drives to school. Or he must have driven to school. He doesn’t remember the drive, and not in the typical absent way that mundane tasks have of becoming a blur of memory. He’s suddenly halfway through his meeting with Lamarque without any idea of how he got there. He doesn’t say anything. He carries through the conversation like nothing’s wrong. 

Nothing  _ is _ wrong.

Lab time eats away the remainder of his morning. By twelve he’s waiting for a gel to finish transferring, so he heads up to the greenhouse to water his plants. After a few moments he hears someone walking in the hall. He pauses, waiting for them to pass by the glass door to the rest of the building, irrational anxiety gnawing at his ribs. He picks up a trowel from the table, just to have something to hold. There is a twitch in the corner of his eye. He lungs toward the movement, his trowel producing a dull thump against the wood. He pulls the tool away and finds an earwig crushed to the table. It’s still twitching, half alive. He presses the trowel down again, slower but with more force, feeling a soft, sickly pop. It’s dead. He stares at crushed insect for a long time, lost and very very sorry. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a knock at the greenhouse door. Grantaire is standing in the hall. 

“Sorry!” he apologizes when Enjolras lets him in. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ve locked myself out of the lab.” Not an uncommon occurrence, the door locks automatically behind anyone who leaves. 

“Right, just give me a second.” He turns quickly back and finishes watering his plants. 

“How was your conference?” Grantaire asks.

“It was fine.”

“No vicious arguments over protein pathways?”

“Not this time.” It has been known to happen. He did get into an argument over how rigorously to double check data but he doesn’t have the energy to converse, so he maintains his silence, letting Grantaire talk and talk and talk until he unlocks the lab. 

“You’re a gem!” Grantaire grabs his keys and laptop off the counter and runs from the room. Watching him makes Enjolras tired. 

He returns to his lab bench where the gel transfer is complete and mindlessly continues his work. He’s trying to mix a primary antibody solution to read his immunoblot when he pauses. The solution is redder than he expects. It’s made from the platelets of rabbit blood, the color should be slightly off-clear but it’s rapidly darkening to scarlet in his shaking hand, filling without a source. Blood is overflowing onto the lab bench, onto his gloved hands. He drops the container and stumbles back watching the blood continue to pool on the floor. He stands on shaky legs, grabbing the vial and rushing to the sink, a bloody trail left in his wake. He snaps off his gloves and rinses his hands, trying to remove the red where it’s leaked under the latex. 

He’s still standing with the water running when Grantaire returns. They make eye contact. 

“Hey.” Grantaire smiles, apparently not noticing the blood. “I was wondering if you could show me some of the basics of protein extraction, I’ve been told I need to broaden my repertoire of techniques.” 

Enjolras turns off the water, his hands are still shaking. He grips the black countertop. “Sorry, I was just about to head home.”

“Already?” 

“Not feeling great.” That’s true enough, he’s not sure how his legs are still holding him upright. “Remind me next time we’re in together.”

“Sure thing.” Grantaire’s smile has slipped slightly, but his tone hasn’t changed. “Feel better.”

“Thanks.”

Enjolras clears his station and makes his way out to the parking lot where he checks his trunk. The lichen samples aren’t there, so he must have delivered them when he arrived. He moves around the side and opens the car door before closing it again, unable to bring himself to step inside. He can’t drive right now, so he begins the short walk home. 

No one’s home yet, so h e pulls out his keys, and a few teeth tumble out of his pocket onto the steps. They glimmer in the sunlight and he kicks them into the grass, unlocking the door, forcing himself to take even breaths. 

Nothing’s wrong. 

Everything’s fine.

He collapses onto his bed, trying to find some relief, but the panic creeps back. He can’t stay there: despite the closed curtains there are eyes on him, and someone is listening to his ragged breathing. He retreats to the bathroom, where the space is small and confined and there is only one way in and out. The lock gives an almost comforting click before he jumps at the sight of his own reflection . His expression is bleak, heavy with guilt. He recognizes the face but not whatever lurks behind the eyes; something’s missing, or maybe something’s changed. Which option is less disturbing, he doesn’t know.

Unable to stand the quiet, he turns on the shower, shifting the dial to cold. Discarding his clothes, he sits below the frigid stream of water and tries to shiver away his nervous energy. It doesn’t help. After turning off the tap he doesn’t leave the room. He redresses and sits with his head tipped back against the cabinets under the sink, waiting for someone to come home. It’s an eternity before he hears the door creak open. He takes a moment to arrange his expression into something less dower before exiting the room. 

“Hey, Enj,” Courfeyrac greets, setting his bag onto the couch. “R said you weren’t feeling great.” 

“Just tired,” he lies. 

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t want to drive.”

“You should have said something.” Courfeyrac frowns. “One of us could have taken you home.”

“It’s all right.”

“Well,” he drawls, “I’m headed off in a few minutes, last chance to come with us to the Musain.”

“I’ll go.” The idea of staying home alone a moment longer is too much to bear. 

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m not going to be able to get anything done anyway.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with Enjolras?”

“I took a nap. I feel nearly functional now.”

“If you’re sure.”

An indeterminate amount of time later Enjolras sits slumped in his seat at the Musain. Bossuet and Joly who are out of state with Musichetta for a funeral, but everyone else is there. They’re all having a good time, but Enjolras has lost track of what’s going on. He’s talking, but he’s not sure what he’s said or how long he’s been there. It’s dark outside, so it’s probably been a while. His mind is absent and he’s staring at Grantaire, watching him gesticulate something to Bahorel. He looks happy. Content. He’s the only other one who isn’t drinking. That’s new. He hasn’t been vocal about it, but Enjolras has noticed. 

Enjolras has had the same drink in front of him since his arrival. Sometimes he’ll drink with friends, but right now he can’t not be in control, and he has secrets to keep. He absently draws a finger across the condensation on the glass, the sensation a million miles away. 

When Grantaire glances his direction and catches him staring, he smiles. Enjolras looks away slowly to find Combeferre trying to get his attention. 

“Enj, Feuilly is leaving.” It takes a moment for the words to find their meaning. 

“Okay?” 

Feuilly has a full-time job while working on his PhD, which technically isn’t allowed, but the college has made an exception for him. As such, he usually leaves events early. Why this is relevant at the moment, Enjolras can’t fathom. 

“He said he’d take you home.”

“Why did he say that?”

“Because you look like you’re about to fall asleep,” Combeferre elaborates. 

“Ah, right.” He stands, smiling for his friend’s benefit, and follows Feuilly into the darkness. The car ride makes him queasy despite its brevity. They talk about trees along the way, or maybe they don’t. Halfway through the drive time goes fuzzy, and suddenly he’s alone again in the house, trying to find sleep. It’s impossible when he can’t even breathe. He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them somewhere else. 

The air is cool and still. He's standing, hands gripping an old metal gate. It’s dark, but he can see tombstones through the gloom between the bars. A graveyard. The hair at the back of his neck stands on end. He knows where he is. The walk would have been substantial, but he’s more concerned with the presence he feels. Someone’s watching. They know. He grips the gate tighter, rust flaking under the pressure. It smells like blood. He wants to gag. 

"Enjolras?" calls a familiar voice. He looks up the road to see Grantaire walking toward him. “What are you doing?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he lies. Or maybe it’s only half a lie. 

“So, you decided to walk across the city and visit a graveyard? Do you even know anybody in there?” He peaks through the gate. 

“No.” He forces his hands to unclench, wiping away the grit on his jeans. “I was just trying to walk off my energy.”

“I know you’re not inclined to listen to me, but you  _ probably _ shouldn’t take walks in the middle of the night.”

He nods. “Someone was shot down the road from here last week.”

“…Yeah.” Grantaire is looking at him strangely, perhaps that was the wrong thing to say. “That’s the sort of situation we want to avoid.” He squints when Enjolras doesn’t reply as if trying to read his expression. Enjolras has no idea what he finds there. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll give you a ride home,” he says finally, taking a step in the direction of his previous course. 

Enjolras follows him, not talking. He doesn’t think Grantaire is talking either, but he’s so acutely aware of everything else around them that he’s not really paying attention. They’re still being watched. When they arrive at the apartment, Grantaire goes for his keys but Enjolras stops him. “Can I stay here tonight?” He’s suddenly very tired.

“…If you want to,” Grantaire answers slowly.  

“I do.” Something must be strange in the way he says it because Grantaire’s expression grows concerned. 

"Should I…call Courf or Ferre?"

“No, it’s fine.”

“Do they know you left?”

He shrugs. He wants to sit down, a little worried he might fall where he stands. 

The worry must have appeared on his face because Grantaire takes him by the elbow and urges him to sit down on the couch. “Okay. You can sleep here if you want.”

“Thanks.” His voice sounds very far away. 

Grantaire leaves for a moment, returning with blankets and a pillow. “Are you…” he starts as Enjolras arranges his bed. “Are you all right?”

He doesn’t look up. “I’m fine.” 

“Okay…” The soils scientist sounds doubtful. "Do you mind if I hang out in here for a while?"

"You can stay."

"Okay. I know I'm not...” He pauses. “I know I'm probably not the person you want to share your problems with but...do you want to talk about anything?"

No, he doesn’t. 

Not now. 

Not ever. 

"There’s nothing to talk about."

"Fine, just…call next time you go wandering around in the dark, yeah? I mean, it doesn’t have to be me, but just tell someone so we know when to be worried."

"Sorry."

“Don’t be…just…” He gives a frustrated sigh. “Nevermind.”

Enjolras lays awake for a long time before falling asleep to the sound of Grantaire typing and wakes disoriented with Grantaire’s hand on his shoulder.

"Are you okay?” he asks. “I wasn’t sure whether or not to wake you."

Enjolras is struggling to catch his breath. The tendrils of his dreams are rapidly retreating, bright lights contrasting dark shadows and shocking violence. He feels as though he’s been torn open, if he moves his muscles might slip from beneath his skin and pool onto the floor. But he can’t let that happen. Grantaire is waiting for his response. 

“Fine. I’m fine,” he manages, staring at the ceiling. 

“Are you?” Grantaire moves closer, into his line of vision. Enjolras meets his gaze, steeling his expression. There’s a bitter confession forming on his tongue. 

“Yes.” It’s not the response he wants to give, but he can’t even bring himself to think the words let alone speak them. 

“Bullshit. Do you need a doctor? I can call Joly-”

“No, I swear I’m fine. Just…stressed.”

Grantaire doesn’t appear satisfied with this answer, but Enjolras doesn’t give him the chance to question further. “What time is it?” He reaches for his pocket only to realize he doesn’t have his phone with him. 

“About four-thirty. Think you can make it back to sleep?”

He doesn’t respond but his expression gives him away. 

“Right, come here.” Grantaire grabs his computer and slides onto the couch beside him.

They sit close, the movement tugging at Enjolras’ shirt and pulling his collar out of place. He tries to pull it back but Granaire stops him. 

“Did you get bit by something?” he asks, pulling the shirt further back from his shoulder.

“No. Do I have a bug bite?” He lifts his hand to touch the spot Grantaire has indicated, it doesn’t seem raised or itchy. 

“You have a little mark. Hang on.” Grantaire takes a picture on his phone and passes it over. The spot is small, slightly red at the center, splotched and lightly bruised. 

“Maybe it’s a spider bite.”

“Think you should worry?”

“If it hasn’t killed me yet, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Very comforting, considering I just found you trying to break into a graveyard,” Grantaire says, opening his laptop. 

“I wasn’t trying to break in.”

“Then what were you trying to do?”

“Pay my respects.”

“To who?”

“Everyone.” He’s caught off guard by his own sincerity. 

Grantaire blinks at him. “I’m sure more than half the people in there don’t deserve your respect.”

“It doesn’t matter, I’m sorry they’re dead.”

“There’s nothing you can do for them now.”

“I know.”

Grantaire stares at him for a long time before apparently finding nothing to say and pulling up a nature documentary. Enjolras doesn’t watch it. Grantaire doesn’t seem to either, he’s on his phone, speaking up every now and then to ask a medical question. Eventually he stops, and Enjolras listens carefully as his breathing steadily evens out. He’s warm. He’s peaceful. He’s asleep. And Enjolras has ants under his skin but he sits still and lets them continue to crawl over his insides. The apartment is emptier now that he’s the only one awake. He lays in the silence, trying his very best not to exist. Hiding under the cover of Grantaire’s breathing.

Grantaire wakes with the morning light, face pressed to Enjolras’ shoulder. 

“I fell asleep on you,” he observes once he has the clarity to speak. 

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Okay,” he sighs. He hasn’t moved. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t eat when Grantaire tries to feed him. He’s never been less hungry. 

“I’ll walk home,” he says when they near Grantaire’s car.

“E, you live halfway across town and you don’t have your phone on you. Get in the car.”

Enjolras wants to protest but suspects it would only end in a bigger fight than he has the capacity to deal with at the moment. He slips into the passenger side and closes his eyes, pressing his forehead against the window, he doesn’t open them until they reach their destination. 

“Do you need help getting in?” Grantaire asks.

“No.” Enjolras unfastens his seatbelt. “Thank you for driving me. I’m sorry for… I’m sorry,” he sighs. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Grantaire reach over to tug at one of his curls. He looks up to meet his eye.

“Don’t be,” he gives a sorry smile. He looks so genuine Enjolras wants to cry. Instead, he gives a stiff nod and exits the vehicle. 

When he walks through the door, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are at the table. They're both working, but they've obviously been waiting for him. Grantaire must have texted at least one of them. Traitor. 

“Enjolras, what’s going on?” Combeferre asks as he tries to pass. 

Enjolras takes a breath. “Nothing.”

“This doesn’t seem like nothing.”

He turns to meet Combeferre’s eye, he’s not even attempting to hide his worry. “Then what does it seem like?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Did something happen at your conference?” Courfeyrac asks softly. 

“The conference was fine.” Enjolras shakes his head, that at least isn’t a lie. “I’m just... I’m just very tired, and I have to get ready to go.”

“You’re not going in today,” Combeferre informs him. 

“I’m not?”

“Enj, you look terrible. You need to get some rest. Cosette is going to be here in a few minutes. She’ll look after you.” 

“I don’t need to be looked after,” he protests wandering over to slump onto the couch.

“Then she’ll be here to keep you company.”

“Fine.” His tone is annoyed, but he’s relieved that he’s not going to spend the day alone in the house. 

“We just want to be sure you’re okay.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Sorrier than he can express. 

“Come here.” Courfeyrac pulls him upright into a hug. Enjolras allows it, limp against his shoulder.

Combeferre places a hand on his head from the other side of the couch. “You know you can tell us anything, right?”

“I know,” he responds, but that doesn’t make it any easier. 

When Cosette arrives, she forces him to have breakfast; it’s non-negotiable. He eats mechanically, tastes nothing. He tries to work but can’t focus, his mind finds itself wandering to long empty stretches of darkened highway. He lays on the couch, pillow pressed over his face as Cosette tells him about the bees she’s categorizing for her thesis. 

Midway through the day a siren passes close to the house. It’s not uncommon, but it sets his heart to beating out of his ribcage, and it doesn’t stop. The sound echoes in his head as he presses a hand to his chest, hot and cold with adrenaline laced panic. Cosette is out of sight making lunch. Enjolras slips into the bathroom, turns on the water and sits below the sink, sliding his fingers into his hair and holding tight. He wets his hair before leaving the room. He refuses to eat lunch. 

He can’t even pretend to put the effort into being remotely normal by the time Courfeyrac and Combeferre are home. Everything is too much. His mind is vibrating out of his skull, and he wants it to stop. He knows his expression is drawn and anxious, but he can’t fix it. His muscles aren’t cooperating. 

They try encouraging him to talk and when that fails, they sit together in the living room, pretending to watch some show on Combeferre’s laptop. When night again falls, Enjolras retreats to his room, away from the temptation to tell and into a place where he can’t sleep. He doesn’t want to think. If he leaves the room he’ll wake his friends, so he slips out the window and climbs out into the backyard, then through the gate into the street.

He takes a step and stumbles, falling. The asphalt scrapes his hands. He’s not where he thought he would be. The street is lined with buildings he doesn’t recognize, closed for the night. He stands and finds himself unsteady. He feels drunk. He  _ is _ drunk. He's been drinking… something. There’s a bottle in his hand. He lifts it in an attempt to read the label when a car turns a corner, flashing him with its headlights before continuing onward. Enjolras’ eyes ache but in that moment he’s blind with panic, not overexposure to the light. When the moment passes, he takes a gasp of air so sharp he chokes, sliding rapidly from fear with a surge of vicious anger. He wants to hurl the bottle through the car’s windshield but it’s already long gone. Instead he flings it at the ground where it shatters into a million pieces at his feet. He stands there, breathing heavily, out of control. He wants to scream. Wants to punch something. Wants to tear the world to pieces with his bare hands. Wants to strangle the last breaths of life from- he stops. He tries to stop. His brain catches up and he fumbles for his phone, pressing it to his ear once he dials a number. 

“I need help,” he says as soon as the line picks up. It comes out in half a sob. He lifts a hand to his face and finds it wet. He stares at the tears, they gleam red under a neon closed sign. 

“What’s wrong?” It’s Grantaire’s voice. He’s not sure if that’s who he meant to call. Probably. He’s too cowardly to call Courfeyrac or Combeferre. “Enjolras?" Grantaire calls.

"R..." He isn’t sure what he wanted to say anymore.

“Enjolras, what’s going on?”

"'M not sure where I'm." He’s trying his best to be coherent but his tongue is heavy. 

"Are you  _ drunk _ ?"

"No!" he fails to sound offended. “I juss…”

"Can you see anything familiar, any landmarks?"

There’s a restaurant across the way. He gives Grantaire the name. 

"Don’t go anywhere. I'll be there in a few minutes." 

Enjolras hangs up. He’s not sure if he was meant to, but he does, and as he stands under the stars he grows rapidly more worried. The sky is too big and open, he’s exposed. He ducks under the ledge of a nearby building, trying not to be under the stars. Crouching down, he clutches his knees, wishing he had a hood to hide under. They’re watching again…

When the sidewalk starts to float away, he realizes he’s hyperventilating. There’s a destructive energy buzzing in his veins. He wants to- He wants to do  _ something _ and he’s afraid of what that something is, drowning in the chaos.  

And then Grantaire is there, kneeling in front of him, panicked. He’s saying something but Enjolras is too far away. Grantaire puts a hand on his knees and it’s grounding. Enjolras stares at his mouth, trying to make sense of his words but he’s talking too fast.

“…the car?” he finally makes out. 

“Wha?” Enjolras blinks.

Grantaire appears elated at his response. “I asked if you wanted to move to the car.”

“Don’t wanna be here.” But he doesn’t want to be in the car either. 

"What's wrong?"

He doesn’t want to answer.

“Enjolras, please.”

"I'm afraid...." he admits in favor of the whole truth. 

"Afraid of what?”

He still can’t answer, struggling for the words. He tries and only gets as far as opening his mouth. 

“Here let's get you out. Can you stand?"

He tries again. "I'm just...I'm afraid..." he stops again, the words dying in his mouth as his brain catches up on what he’s been asked. "You'll have to carry me." 

“That’s fine, you just focus on breathing. Come on, up we go.”

Grantaire scoops him up and Enjolras clings, probably too tightly. 

He’s tucked carefully into the passenger seat. "I'm taking you home," Grantaire announces, strapping him in. 

"No…"

"Yes.” Grantaire moves to his side and steps into the car. “This is the sort of thing I expect from me, not you. What the fuck is going on?"

Enjolras ignores the question. "Take me home with you," he begs, suddenly desperate. “I don’t want to go home."

“Why not? Courf and Ferre are better equip to deal with this than I am.”

Enjolras reaches across the center console, grabbing Grantaire around the middle. “Don’t make me go home. Please.” 

"Sh. Fine. Fine. Fuck. Just, let me drive." He unlocks Enjolras’ arms and pushes him back into his seat, brushing the tears from his face. “Okay?”

Enjolras gives a sharp nod before they pull away from the sidewalk. 

He can’t breathe in the car. Every time he opens his eyes, he’s worried he might be sick. He rolls down the window but is too afraid to stick his head out under the open sky.  Grantaire has to carry him up to the apartment. 

Inside, Enjolras clings to him like a lifeline. Because it’s grounding, and he’s trying to hide. From Grantaire and from anyone else who might be listening. 

Grantaire holds him.

"Enj, what the fuck is happening?" His hands rise to Enjolras’ back, warm and steady, but his voice is wavering. 

"Thank you," Enjolras manages, pressing a sloppy kiss to his jaw. 

Grantaire squirms. "You’re so drunk. Why are you so drunk?"

"Just wanted it to stop." He clutches Grantaire tighter. 

"You wanted what to stop?"

"I...nothing." He still can’t say it.

"Did it help?"

"No. I wanna not be drunk right now.” He’s afraid of what he might do. What he might say. 

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I’m sure Combeferre is your secret keeper, but fuck this is really scary.”

Enjolras is quiet for a long time. 

"’Ferre would tell me to go to the police."

Grantaire pulls back in shock. “ _ What _ ?”

Enjolras can’t meet his gaze. “Something bad happened.”

“When?”

“When I was coming back from… The conference… I…” The tears are coming freely now. The words take effort. 

“What happened?”

Enjolras shakes his head, sliding to the floor. Grantaire follows him down, holding both of his shaking hands. 

“You’re scaring me, Enj. What happened?” Grantaire speaks at a level just above a whisper. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No…” The words are on the tip of his tongue, if he could just force them out. He takes one last shaky breath. “I did it,” he confesses. 

“You did what?”

“I… I got a flat tire when I was driving back.”

_ He’s tired, it’s almost two in the morning and someone flashes their headlights at him. The only other car he’s seen across miles of empty road. He glares at its retreating tail lights. A few minutes later he realizes he has a flat tire.  _

“It was…I was in the middle of nowhere.”

_ It’s cold outside. The road is quiet, and the desert is a flat expanse of nothing. The stars twinkle down, watching over him, his only witness.  _

“Someone pulled over.” 

_ The lights are coming from the same direction of the car that flashed him, it’s the same model.  _

“Made me nervous.”

_ He’s already made progress toward replacing the tire as the car pulls in maybe twenty feet away. He clutches the lug wrench in his hand as a figure exits the vehicle. They make no greeting; their car is still running.  _

“I hit him over the head with a wrench.”

“You  _ what _ ?” Grantaire gasps. 

_ As soon as he’s close enough, Enjolras swings. The stranger has no time to react. Enjolras moves independent of thought. The metal makes a dull thump against flesh and he’s hard falling into the dirt and Enjolras keeps swinging. Again, and again until the sand is stained red.  _

“I hit him… I kept hitting him. And then he stopped moving. So, I switched the tire and drove off.” 

_ He’s spattered in blood and he can’t feel anything. The night goes on forever.  _

“I just…. I think I killed him.” 

“ _ Why _ ?” Grantaire’s grip is almost painful.

“I don’t know! I’m afraid I’m going to do it again. I don’t want-“ He stops. “I didn’t want to kill him.”

Grantaire pulls him close, hushing him. “What did you do with the wrench?”

“I don’t remember.” 

“And you just went home covered in blood?”

“Yes.” He remembers standing in the shower, wiping dried blood from his face.

“And Courfeyrac and Combeferre didn’t see or hear anything once you were home?”

“They were asleep.”

“What did you do with the bloody clothes?”

“Stuffed in my dresser. What am I going to-?” He’s breathing too fast again; the room is spinning. There’s a brush of something warm on his lips, his mouth is suddenly coppery. His nose is gushing blood. He shouldn’t have told. Shouldn’t have told. 

Grantaire brings him a paper towel and holds it to his face. 

“Have you checked to see if they’ve found the body?” he asks, tipping Enjolras’ head back. 

“No. I didn’t want to know.”

Grantaire is frowning at him in a particular way, almost suspicious. 

“What?”

“This is just… I wouldn’t expect this from you.”

“ _ You don’t believe me _ ?”

“No,” Grantaire replies seriously, “Something obviously happened, I’m just not sure if it…” he pauses. “It just seems a little odd is all. I think-“ He stops short as his phone vibrates. He pulls it out of his pocket. “Combeferre just texted me asking if I knew where you were. I think I should bring you home.”

“Okay.”

“And I think you should tell them.”

“I do too.” The idea isn’t quite so terrifying now. 

Grantaire sighs and Enjolras leans forward against his chest. Grantaire rubs a hand over his back. Now would be the time for comforting words but it appears Grantaire cannot find them. He lets Enjolras squeeze his hand to death on the car ride home. They don’t talk but somehow Enjolras feels a little better. The feeling disappears as soon as he sees a terrified Courfeyrac and Combeferre. The secret comes spilling out and he wonders how he held them back for so long.  

As they talk Grantaire is absent. 

Combeferre finally looks up as there’s a thump from the kitchen table. 

“What are you doing, R?” he peaks into the other room.

“Are you guys finished talking?” Grantaire calls over.

“For now.”

“Then I think you should come over here.”

On the table sits a lug wrench and a bloodstained shirt. Enjolras groans at the sight. 

“Hang on, I don’t think it’s what you’re imagining,” Grantaire says, lifting the shirt, his hands concealing in winter gloves. The shirt is blood stained but not where Enjolras anticipates. The blood is down the front, not spattered across. It looks more like he’d had a nose bleed and let it run.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“Do you remember cleaning the wrench?” Grantaire asks, picking up the clean tool.

“No...” But that might not mean anything, he’s been forgetting a lot of things lately. 

“I also did a little googling and so far I haven’t found any murders fitting your description.”

“Maybe he lived?” Courfeyrac offers. 

“Maybe it didn’t happen,” counters Grantaire. 

“Either way, you probably don’t want to keep that search history.” Combeferre frowns. “What are you saying, R?”

“I think Enj should probably get his head checked. But we should also probably retrace his steps just to be sure he didn’t actually kill somebody.”

“And if I did?” Enjolras demands. 

“If you did,” Combeferre starts, “then I think you should turn yourself in.”

Grantaire makes a pained noise. 

Combeferre doesn’t let him protest. “If he did, then he killed someone without any cause. If you have a defense for that, I’d love to hear it, because I can’t find one.” His voice is strained. 

Grantaire opens his mouth but Enjolras speaks first. “I agree. I should have turned myself in as soon as it happened. I don’t… I don’t know what I was thinking.” All he can remember thinking is that he could never ever tell. But why? What was he afraid of? He doesn’t think it was the fear of punishment that dissuaded him. It was something more… compulsive stopping him.  

“We’ll deal with this once we figure out if it really happened,” Combeferre sighs. “I think we should wait until the sun comes up and drive back along your route, you can point out where you think you stopped.”

“Okay.”

“What are we supposed to do until then?” Grantaire wonders, staring out the darkened windows. “I don’t think I’ll be getting any sleep.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre look as though they agree, but Enjolras is beyond tired. It comes over him so suddenly that he wavers where he stands. “I think…” He’s unconscious before he can finish his thought. 

He dreams of pain and a blindingly bright light. When he wakes, he’s alone in his bed. His teeth hurt and he can hear someone moving around in the kitchen. Unsteadily, he makes his way over to see Grantaire scrambling eggs.

“Morning,” he smiles. “How are you feeling?”

“Have Courf and Ferre already left?” Enjolras asks, confused. 

Grantaire nods. “Courf had a meeting to get to.”

“When are they coming back?”

“I’d assume whatever time they normally get back,” Grantaire shrugs. 

“Are they not coming with us?”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought-“ He looks to the table and sees that the clothes and wrench are gone. “We said we were going to retrace my steps.”

“Your steps to where?” Grantaire is staring at him like he’s lost his mind. 

“What did you do with my shirt?”

“What shirt?”

“The one on the table.”

“Enj, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Dread pooling in his stomach, Enjolras storms off into his room, tearing through his dresser. It’s no use, the shirt is gone. 

“What happened last night?” Enjolras asks, returning to the kitchen.  

“You snuck out and got drunk, so I picked you up and brought you home.”

“That’s all?”

“Well, you made a scene when I tried to leave. What else would have happened?” Grantaire turns to move the eggs to a plate and Enjolras catches a slight discoloration of skin over the collar of his shirt. He pulls the fabric out of place and finds a small, slightly bruised spot. “What is it?”

“You have a mark on your shoulder like mine.”

Grantaire makes a face. “You guys must have a spider infestation.”

“Spiders that just happen to bite in the same place?”

“A spider that knows what it likes. Anyway, what were you saying about last night?”

“I…” He pauses, a wave of dizziness rushing over him. “I don’t remember it the same way you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t...” His words stall as he stares helplessly into Grantaire’s confused face.

Grantaire takes him by the arm, guiding him into a chair. “Are you alright?” he asks, kneeling into Enjolras’ downturned gaze. 

“I’m... not sure. I think…” Enjolras takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands over his face. “I think maybe I should see a doctor.” 

**Author's Note:**

> And then I bail out bc this was agony to write and I hate it and you cant really deal with this sort of thing unless you write 100000k+ and that’s not happening. So why did I decided to write this? Bc there aren’t enough fic where enj feels guilty abt killing people. Also bc dreams where I know ive killed someone and have to live with the guilt. 
> 
> I'm opens-up-4-nobody on tumblr if you want to say hi.
> 
> Thanks.


End file.
